DARCY
She doesn’t bring it up until we’re eating.
The lemon chicken turned out fine. Better than fine, which feels like a small victory after the last hour. Billie is sitting cross-legged on my kitchen floor because she decided it was more comfortable that way and pulled her plate down there. I joined her because, apparently, I’m a person who eats on the floor now.
“This is disgusting, by the way,” she says, shoving another forkful into her mouth.
“Disgusting good or disgusting bad?”
“Disgusting that you’re this good at cooking and you’ve been hiding it from me.” She points her fork at me. “I’m retroactively offended by every meal I’ve made for myself this summer.”
The normalcy of it loosens the knot in my chest. She hasn’t looked at me differently since the almost-panic attack. Hasn’t tiptoed around me or asked if I’m sure I’m okay with that careful voice people use when they’ve decided you’re breakable. She… stayed. Now we’re eating dinner on the floor as if nothing happened. Except something did happen, and we both know it.
“I want to say something,” she says, not looking up from her plate. She’s chasing a potato around with her fork, and her focused frown tells me she’s been working up to this. “And it’s not about what happened earlier. I mean, it is, but it’s not—I’m not asking you to explain anything.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She exhales. Sets her fork down. “I have PMDD. And ADHD, if you remember me telling you that. It’s a super fun combo that means my brain is always doing the most, and then once a month, my body joins in, and they team up to ruin my life.” She says it lightly, almost rehearsed. I recognize that tone. It’s the voice you use when you’ve explained something so many times you’ve built a script for it. A version that’s palatable. Easy to digest for whoever’s listening. It’s like whenever Leo tells people his mom died, but it’s totally cool and not a big deal, even though it’s the biggest deal.
“I’m not telling you this because I want you to share what’s going on with you,” she continues. “I’m telling you because when you were—when it happened earlier—I wasn’t guessing at what to do. I mean, I was a little. But the reason I didn’t freak out is that I’ve been there. My version looks different, but I’ve been on the floor, Peter. Literally. So many times.” She huffs out a small laugh. “My favorite is the bathroom tile. Super cold. Oddly comforting.”
I don’t say anything, because what’s hitting me isn’t what she’s telling me—it’s that she’s telling me at all. Billie doesn’t volunteer personal information easily. Every real thing I’ve learned about her has come in small, unguarded moments—a comment she didn’t mean to make, a story that slipped out. This is deliberate. She’s choosing to let me in. And she’s doing it not so I’ll reciprocate, but so I’ll know I’m not alone in this kitchen with someone who doesn’t understand.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say, hoping she can hear my sincerity.
She shrugs, picking her fork up. “It’s not a big deal.”
It is, though. And we both know that, too.
“The ADHD thing.” Her voice has shifted back to casual, like she’s moved past the hard part and is relieved to be on the other side of it. “That’s why I’m like this”—she gestures broadly at herself—“the bouncing around. Starting twelve things at once. Forgetting what I walked into a room for, but remembering the exact shade of blue you said your mom painted your childhood bedroom.”
“You remember that?”
“Cerulean. Which you called ‘the really bluey blue,’ and I’ve never recovered from that description.” She grins at me, and the way my heart beats faster has nothing to do with a panic attack. “Anyway. My brain sometimes holds onto weird things and drops important ones. It’s why I’m good at my job. I can see the whole picture, the moving parts, but it’s also why I leave my keys in the fridge and forget to eat until three in the afternoon.”
“Is that why there was a granola bar in my medicine cabinet?”
“We don’t need to discuss that.” The look she levels me with is familiar. It’s the same one my mom was giving my dad not long ago.
I laugh—a real one that surprises me—and she looks satisfied, like making me laugh was a project she’d assigned herself and now she’s passed with flying colors.
“PMDD is the harder one,” she says, quieter now. “Two weeks out of every month, I’m fine. Good, even. And then…” She trails off, pressing her lips together. “It’s like someone turns the lights off in my head. Everything gets loud and heavy. I either feel everything at once or nothing at all. I’ve had it tank relationships. Friendships. I’ve canceled on people I lovebecause getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest, and then felt guilty about it for weeks, which only made the next cycle worse. I take medication every day for both things, which is feat in and of itself, because, hello, asking someone with ADHD to do something routinely? Yeah, that’s a recipe for failure. But I’ve worked out a system. I keep pill bottles everywhere, in case I leave the house and forget to take them. I don’t rely on anyone else to help me keep up with the routine because… well, that doesn’t matter.”
She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at her plate, and I can see the effort it’s taking to keep her voice even.
“Most people either try to fix me or decide I’m too much work. The fixing is almost worse, honestly. Like,oh, have you tried yoga?Have you tried magnesium? Have you asked your doctor for different medication? Have you tried not having a hormonal disorder?” The sarcasm is sharp, but there’s something bruised underneath it. “So, yeah. I’m not asking you to tell me what happened today. But I want you to know that, whatever it is, I’m not going to try to fix you. And I’m not going to leave because of it.”
The silence between us is heavy in the best way. Full, not empty.
“Bathroom tile, huh?” I say after a moment.
“Coldest surface in my house. Very grounding. I recommend finding yours. I bet your mudroom floor would do the job superbly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She nods once, then stabs a piece of chicken. “Good. Now, stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
